


Dragonslayer

by DonLambert



Series: Crimson [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Spanking, Throne Sex, Voyeurism, but only kinda, well kinda throne sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonLambert/pseuds/DonLambert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the battle Thranduil invites Bard back to his tent in Dale and the two kings share in each other’s company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragonslayer

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with this ship watching BotFA and had to write this. Apologies for any inaccuracies or mistakes. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Previously titled Dragon Slayer, but turns out that was wrong and I finally bucked up and edited it.

Perhaps two hours had passed since Bilbo and Gandalf had left the tent of the Elvenking. Night had fallen in earnest over the broken city of Dale, preparations for battle had calmed though they had not ceased.

Thranduil now stood watch over The Arkenstone. It sat on his table on it’s bed of red cloth where Bilbo had presented it to him. With unneeded care Thranduil picked it up, its weight cool and heavy in his palm, and watched as it glimmered on, unaware of turmoil it caused. It could have sat in the mountain for a hundred thousand years, the stone did not care whose hands caressed it, whose hearts coveted it.

“ _Bard to see you, my lord_ ,” declared one of his guards in elvish.  
  
Thranduil heard the steps of the Bowman entering his tent, coming to rest a few paces behind him.

He did not acknowledge Bard, turning the Arkenstone over in his hands. Such a fantastically important stone - its status was indeed befitting of its beauty. It seemed to contain in it endless, swirling stars and suns.

“A beautiful gem indeed,” the Elvenking murmured.

“Never been much for jewelry myself,” Bard said matter-of-factly, arms crossed in front of his chest. To go to war over riches of any sort seemed like madness to him, but he knew better than to say so again in front of the Elvenking.

Thranduil turned towards him, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Master Bard. Thank you for joining me once again.”

“Gladly,” the Bowman replied, dropping his arms and giving a smile.

There was a silence as Thranduil returned the Arkenstone to its current resting place, re-covering it with the cloth.

Bard soon spoke again, unable to restrain the question that had been weighing on him. “You know the ways of Thorin Oakenshield better than me it seems - do you believe he’ll take the bargain that Bilbo suggested?”

“He may. It is his only rational option.”

“Only he’s not behaving rationally at the moment, unfortunately for us.”

“No, he is not,” Thranduil agreed, pacing slowly as he spoke. “Which is why we will continue battle preparations through the night - to lay any trust in the success of this bargain would be folly, and whatever happens I do not believe it will be as simple as the Halfling seemed to believe. Thorin Oakensheild is more than stubborn dwarf, he is deluded. I do not doubt dragon sickness has befallen him.”

“Dragon sickness?”

“Yes.” Thranduil paused his circling, gazing in to one of the small flames that lit his tent. “Would you care to join me, Master Bard, for the evening? Perhaps there is information I can offer you.”

“I...think camp can do without me for a while. I’d be honored.” The Bowman sounded like he genuinely would be.

Two guards stood at the only entrance to the tent that remained open, armored and unmoving. Thranduil crossed to them and in elvish he ordered one to fetch him the best Dorwinion wine they had brought. A moment of silence followed as they waited that neither broke. Bard wondered what had been said, but he resisted asking. He found out soon enough when the elf returned not a minute later with a full jug of wine. 

He moved to serve them, but Thranduil held up a palm. “Leave us,” he ordered in the common tongue, perhaps so that Bard was not surprised as the elf set the jug on one of the tables and both guards slipped out of the tent. “ _I do not wish to be interrupted for the rest of the night,_ ” Thranduil instructed as they left, and a simultaneous nod was his answer. They closed the flaps of the tent and the noises of the night were muffled and the two of them were alone.

In truth Thranduil had wanted to get the Bowman alone since first they’d met. The Elvenking had been feeling slightly anxious and not a small bit stir-crazy. He had his particular subjects in his kingdom who could satisfy him when he needed it, and certainly they were eager to be of such service to their king, but there was nothing past the physical in his encounters as of late. They were empty. On this eve of battle, with lives hanging in suspension, the king wanted something _real_ , and certainly he would get it from this Bowman if he had any sense of judgement left to him.

“Wine?” He offered as he took up the jug and poured burgundy liquid in to two silver goblets engraved with leaves and twining vines.

“Oh, I’m not sure if -”

Thranduil held a goblet out to Bard. “I insist.”

“Well,” Bard replied with a grin, taking the cup. “If the Elvenking insists.”

“A toast then, one king to another. To a short and successful war.”

“We should be so lucky,” Bard said grimly as they touched the rims of their silver goblets together with a ringing clink.

They drank, and the wine was earthy and deep, full bodied with flavors of berries and woods, but with notes of clarity, like gold sunlight through tree branches. It sent his blood tingling as it settled in his stomach, sharp sweetness still on on his tongue. It was good wine, wonderful in fact. A luxury that seemed out of place in his current circumstance.

He took another gulp before looking seriously to Thranduil. “Now, I’m no king, you know.”

“You are the leader of your people now,” Thranduil offered, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly.

Bard chuckled. “I’m a Bargeman.” 

“Just because a man is a Bowman and a Bargeman doesn’t mean he cannot also slay a dragon and be a king.”

“Well I’ll drink to that, though not out of content.”

And they did drink to it, each draining a goblet. Thranduil refilled them, and he assured Bard that he had a friend in the elves, perhaps not forever, but when he needed it, and urged the Bowman not to be afraid. They sat on either side of the small fire that was crackling in a woven metal cage and talked for a good while.

Bard described in detail the attack of Smaug. Thranduil listened gravely, knowing only too well of the destruction of dragons. He cared little for the short lives of the men of the lake, but the killing of a dragon was no small feat, and he cared for Bard’s plight, and much for the effect that the events of the coming days would have on his kingdom.

Thranduil talked in turn about the history of the mountain, the relationship he used to have with its kings of old, about Thror’s finding of the Arkenstone and his suspicions that Thorin had fallen under dragon sickness like his grandfather before him. He graciously answered any questions that Bard had, and when those had been exhausted Thranduil moved on to the subject of his own kingdom. 

As the time and drink ran on Bard found himself distracted, catching very little of what the Elvenking was saying, only able to focus on the rich, musical timbre in which it was said and the mouth from which it issued.

Bard was feeling rather warm and tipsy from the wine, though they’d each only had three glasses, none of which seemed to be effecting the Elvenking. But then, it was Elven wine. Still Bard found himself laughing at entirely inappropriate times and having to apologize profusely. Luckily this seemed to be met with amusement from Thranduil, whose eyes, pale silver as the robes he wore, were bright and glittering.

Bard dealt with elves all the time, or at least more than most men could claim, but he had quickly found that none of the elves he encountered through business with Mirkwood had been anything like their king. Fairer than any maiden and yet terrible, he was a calm, smooth surface of ice seeming to cover rolling black waters beneath. Regal, powerful, a king of kings, yet crafted of starlight from days that had long ago passed out of memory - a remnant, ancient and ageless. And yet when he let it be heard his deep laugh was full of warmth.

Thranduil was not unaware of the Bowman as he spoke, he watched the man’s eyes glaze over and his cheeks flush and couldn’t help his feeling of satisfaction.

He finished his explanation of the dark spiders that infiltrated his forrest and stood suddenly, turning his back to Bard who raised surprised eyebrows, having been snapped thoroughly out of his reverie.

“Do you know why I sent for you to join me tonight, Dragonslayer?”

Bard blinked. He would never presume to understand the motives of the Elvenking. “To...answer my...questions?”

Thranduil chuckled. “Believe me, I would not call you to me to spend my night telling you tales that I already know.”

Bard couldn’t help but be confused. Had that not been what they’d spent the whole night doing? Were they going to be making more plans? Had there been some kind of new development?

“More wine?” Thranduil asked before Bard could voice his questions.

“I dunno, that’s strong stuff, another glass and I won’t be much good in a tactical discussion.”

“Oh I’m quite done with talking of war for the night,” he answered, voice low and glinting.A grin broke over Bard’s face.

“Well then wine it is!”

“Come over and fetch it, Bargeman,” Thranduil ordered, and Bard crossed to him without hesitation and offered his goblet to be refilled. It really was the most fantastic wine.

A moment’s pause as Thranduil filled his own cup, then he looked at Bard. “A cold night, isn’t it?” He asked, and even slightly tipsy Bard could tell that the innocence of that question was only on the surface. The Elvenking sipped his wine to offer Bard the opportunity to answer.

“Oh, doesn’t seem so to me. Then again, it’s more like what I’m used to than you, I’m sure. Or perhaps you’ve just warmed me up with all of your wine.” There was a chuckle in his voice but his tone had dropped.

“Perhaps I have. Still,” Thranduil took a final draw from his goblet and set it back on the table beside him, stepping closer to Bard. “It seems not to have reached me.”

The lake man watched him, eyes traveling down the figure of the king. “Maybe you ought to wear some furs.”

Thranduil let out a soft chuckle despite himself; he would never. “Maybe I ought.”

And then he removed Bard’s goblet from his hands, and Bard let him. He took his time and Bard watched his every measured, graceful movement, a small smile playing at his lips. If the Elvenking’s advances had been unexpected, Bard did not reveal it, keeping still, breath bated as he let the elf take things where he would. 

Thranduil ran fingers up the worn, fur-lined hems of Bard’s coat, played them across the exposed skin of Bard’s neck and the bit of chest his tunic revealed.

“Well, Bowman,” Thranduil murmured on wine tinted breath, the two of them all but pressed against each other. “Will you warm me?”

“I hardly think I have a choice when it comes to the will of the Elvenking.”

“No indeed.” And Thranduil put both hands on the sides of Bard’s face and claimed his lips with his own.

The satisfaction that Thranduil took from the physical contact was immediate; he felt the tension of his decisions melt away as their mouths opened against each other and their tongues met. He felt Bard giving in to him more and more fully, and not only giving in but pushing back. One rough kiss tasting of smoke and fish and the hunt and he was not so lonely as before.

The Bowman, on the other hand, had had no such intimacies for many years, and those had been with his wife, not with a tall, powerful, radiant, elf king. It was a bit overwhelming at first, but pleasantly so, and slowly he became more sure of himself. He had not realized, perhaps, how much he had missed the simple act of kissing, but his blood was aflame under his skin and his heart hammered like a war drum as their lips moved together.

Bard leaned farther in to the kiss, even tentatively placing his hands on Thranduil’s hips, and when the elf made an agreeable noise he tightened his grip and pulled them flush against each other. A strong desire had lit inside him to please the Elvenking, to fuel this fire.

They took a step back, hands roaming and twining, and Bard accidentally knocked in to the table, sending the open jug of wine falling to the ground with a crash that broke them apart. For a long moment they watched as wine ran out and stained the packed earth of the tent’s floor a deep red, the first blooming stain of the battle to come.

When Thranduil turned back to Bard his silver eyes were burnished with lust.

“I want you to satisfy me tonight, Bowman. I will give myself to you.”

Bard let out a reverent breath at the proposition, and in his eyes Thranduil saw the hunter he had tasted, the mortal man with so much to lose and so short to live. “And I’ll eagerly have you.”

Thranduil kissed Bard in reply, more forcefully now, and as he did he pushed the bowman’s coat off of his shoulders. Again Bard concealed any hint of surprise at the Evenking’s actions, but he could not help but glance around the tent - they were alone, the curtains drawn, but the walls were nothing but fabric.

Thranduil noticed his worry. “We are quite alone,” he assured Bard as he stripped the man’s tunic off. “My men stand guard, we will not be interrupted.” He ran lithe fingers over the plains of his chest and Bard shivered at the featherlight touch. 

Thranduil’s eyes feasted. Bard was muscled and marked from physical labor, scars and even a few dark tattoos scattered across his skin. A patch of dark hair bloomed on his chest and trailed down to disappear below his trousers. Thranduil ran a hand along the path, following it’s course all the way down, and Bard could not stifle his gasp in time when Thranduil squeezed him through the cloth.

“Will they not hear?” He spluttered. “Your men?”

The question seemed to amuse Thranduil. “And if they do? What of it? I am their king.”

Bard looked at Thranduil for a long moment, as if he were imagining all of those elven soldiers outside listening stoically to the screams of their king as he was undone by a mere man of the lake. He was seized by a desire to make that happen and he moved to try to discard one of Thranduil’s numerous robes, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

“No no, Bowman,” Thranduil scolded, and then he smirked. “You may sit and watch.”

He backed Bard gently up to his throne, kissed him quickly before he sat. He turned and retrieved his still almost full glass of wine and held it out to Bard, the corners of his mouth curling up.

Bard took a drink but his eyes stayed on Thranduil, who stepped back and with one elegant motion shrugged the robe off of his shoulders. It pooled like melted silver at his feet. His kingly regalia was layered to excess and all that was revealed was a second crimson robe, but the action still made Bard sit forward with attention.

Thranduil gave a smug smile. “Look at you. A king on a throne.”

“It’s funny how a little wine, a pretty chair, and a radiant, disrobing elf can make one feel like a king indeed.”

The Elvenking approved of this, and with measured patience and graceful movement and not a small bit of show and flourish Thranduil stripped himself down for Bard, who watched in hunger and rapture. He removed, one after one, the red robe, his brooch, his rings, his elegant tunic, his leather boots. He removed his circlet, letting his hair fall as it would over his broad shoulders. At last he unlaced his trousers, pushing them down, stepping out of them, coming to stand comfortably and completely bare in front of Bard.

Bard found himself rendered speechless, arousal taking second place to pure wonder. Thranduil’s hair glimmered with pale gold stars in the firelight, and the flickering flames sent shadows dancing over every contour of his perfect form. Though it was admittedly an effort to stare anywhere but his beautiful cock.

“You are...magnificent,” Bard managed at last. “Radiant. Like a god. I’ve never...well, safe to say nothing like this has _ever_ happened to me before.”

Thranduil gave him a soft smile in reply. He was aware of the gift he bestowed on the mortal, and he would always appreciate being worshipped so, even if he lived out all his long years of immortality. 

“Turn around for me?” Bard requested, and Thranduil cocked an eyebrow, but he obeyed.

Bard took in every bit of the king, looking as if he was trying to commit the features to memory. His skin was like new snow, pale and unmarred. Flushed pink in places. “You’ve surely seen more battle than I’ve seen Sundays, but I don’t find a single scar.”

Thranduil turned back around to meet Bard’s eyes. “I’m afraid you must trust my word alone when I tell you that they are there.”

Had Bard known the extent of the scars Thranduil’s will concealed he would have been looking at him very differently indeed. As it was Thranduil appreciated the wonder of the man, but he quickly tired of it. “Come now, I am no distant star or gilded statue, King of Esgaroth,” he insisted. “Touch me.”

Bard rose and approached him with a covetous rapture, eyes feasting, yet when finally he stood in front of the elf it was with a humility and a tenderness that he pressed his lips to the smooth skin of Thranduils’ neck. The sigh that Bard’s first touch elicited from the Elvenking seemed to ring and echo, a breath of wind through a forrest, and Bard found in it pleasure and approval enough to take the Elvenking to him, to thoroughly kiss and taste every inch of his proud neck, his regal shoulders. His hands roamed, fingers tracing dips and hills, gripping his thighs, squeezing his ass, brushing over his nipples with the pads of rough workman’s thumbs until Thranduil was breathing hard and open mouthed in his ear. 

Bard ran his fingers down the length of Thranduil’s chest and came, at last, to grip the Elvenking’s cock in his hand. It was flushed, fully hard and smooth in Bard’s palm as he started to stroke gently, just to tease. At the touch Thranduil could no longer remain still. His arms hooked around Bard’s shoulders and his hands clutched the bowman’s hair, his hips ground in to the motion of his hand, trying to press further in to him. He could feel Bard’s own erection against his thigh and began to grow impatient. Soon he made the Bowman remove his hand and he stepped back from him. His eyes were dark and his cheeks bloomed red. “Go sit again, Master Bowman. And remove your trousers.”

Thranduil turned away, crossing to a wooden box which contained various provisions and removing a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid. You never knew, after all.

He returned, handing the vial to Bard and then, to the man’s surprise, getting down on his knees in front of the throne. The Bowman had stripped as ordered and his cock stood proud and ready. Thranduil tilted his head the slightest bit to the side and took a long breath, smiling slightly. (Inside he felt rather like cracking his knuckles and licking lips. But he would never.) Bard’s eyebrows were still raised in surprise that he should see the Elvenking on his knees in front of his own throne.

“I haven’t kneeled for anyone in a very, very long time,” Thranduil informed him as if guessing his mind, spreading Bard’s legs further apart and then leaning down to lick one long, slow stroke up the underside of his cock.

“Then I count myself luck--ahh! _Ah_. Lucky indeed,” Bard managed.

Thranduil did not reply, continuing to work slowly over Bard with the flat of his tongue, placing his hands on the Bowman’s thighs. The texture of the hair on Bard’s thighs and at the base of his cock was utterly different to the hairlessness of elves, and it was fascinating and not a small bit arousing. He ignored Bard’s shaft for a moment to kiss and taste his inner thighs, breathing in the foreign, heady musk before taking the head of Bard’s cock back in his mouth and sucking. 

Bard looked down and felt a pang of embarrassment as he wished he had been able to bathe more recently, and perhaps a slight bit of guilt at seeing the Elvenking, regal and ancient and all that, pleasuring _him_. It should be the other way around, he thought.

But then Thranduil started to make satisfied little noises, as if he liked it, as if he loved it, and Bard thought he felt better about himself then than he had after killing Smaug. Suddenly Thranduil ducked his head and took Bard all the way in to his throat and thoughts of himself were driven out of Bard’s mind and replaced with that wet, warm heat. Thranduil swallowed around him and Bard groaned, one hand gripping the throne and the other Thranduil’s silken hair.

The Elvenking continued in that fashion for as long as he felt like it, eventually raising his head and sitting back, impatient again and wanting something for himself. He looked up at Bard and cleared his throat with one light noise. “Now, would you have me take my pleasure?”

“You ask a lot of unnecessary questions,” Bard replied, grinning and shaking his head, already reaching for the vial. 

Thranduil stood and watched as the Bowman uncorked the little vial, pouring out a palmful of the slippery, clear liquid that the elves used exclusively for this purpose. He discarded the vial and stroked himself a few times until he was slick, and Thranduil ached as he imagine that cock inside him.

Finished, Bard sat forward and straight on the throne and Thranduil climbed on to his lap, all long graceful limbs, straddling him. He took Bard’s cock and guided it to his entrance, knowing he needed no more preparation, positioning himself and then looking Bard straight in the eyes as he slowly sank down. He was silent as he did so, letting out one long breath until he had taken Bard all the way in to himself. He sat still for a moment, a hand at the nape of Bard’s neck, savoring the feeling of simply being filled completely by the Dragonslayer.

Bard gripped his hips and pulled Thranduil closer, shifting him on his cock, and Thranduil let out a soft moan at the movement, slowly beginning to roll his hips, grinding down on Bard. Bard’s lips were on his neck, breath hot against Thranduil’s skin. The rest of the world slowly crumbled.

After a moment Bard moved his hands to the armrests of the throne for better leverage, and Thranduil placed his hands on Bard’s shoulders and lifted himself slightly so that Bard could thrust his hips up in to him. The Elvenking’s head fell back in satisfaction as the two of them moved together, slick sounds of skin on skin filling the tent.

While watching the pleasure on Thranduil’s face had to be one of the most beautiful sights Middle Earth had to offer, the elf was not particularly vocal, soft moans and hard breathing the extent of his expression. Maybe it was selfish of Bard, but something inside him just wanted every man and elf in Dale and all of those damn dwarves under that mountain to know that the Elvenking was riding his cock right now. 

“Come on, I wanna hear you,” he entreated, increasing his speed.

“You will get what you earn, Bowman,” Thranduil retorted, taking his hands from Bard’s shoulders and holding instead to the wrought branches of the throne back so that he could grind his hips harder against Bard’s movements. Bard only let him do it for a minute. 

“Get up then, let me fuck you properly.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows at that, and with an effort he stilled his hips. Bard did the same, but neither of them made a move towards standing, instead wrapping their arms around each other and kissing fiercely. Thranduil twined his hands in Bard’s hair and thought for a moment how he never wanted to enter a battle again without having a night like this before it.

Soon they untangled from each other and Thranduil let Bard’s cock slip out of him, wincing slightly at the loss. They both stood and Thranduil let the Bowman guide him, complying as Bard turned him around and bent him over the throne. He rested his hands on its arms and turned his head to look over his shoulder. 

He watched with anticipation as Bard uncorked the vial once more, slicking himself up again, and Bard gave him a grin as he guided his cock to Thranduil’s entrance. He let Bard see his mouth fall open and his eyebrows furrow, another moan escaping, as the Bowman pushed inside him, still resolutely meeting Bard’s gaze.

Bard began to move, a slow rhythm, and immediately Thranduil ground back on to his cock, searching for more. “Is this a man’s ‘properly’?”

“I haven’t even started, elf,” Bard retorted, and he reached out a hand to run over the smooth, warm expanse of the Elvenking’s back.

Thranduil let out a little growl. He tried to rock his hips back in to Bard’s thrusts but it did little and eventually he relinquished control, letting his head fall between his shoulders.

Slowly Bard increased the speed of his thrusts. He let his chest drape over the Elvenking’s back, hands on the arms of the throne, just behind Thranduil’s. Bard wondered how many others had been granted this privilege.

“Did you not slay a dragon yesterday, king?” Thranduil panted as Bard kissed betweenhis shoulder blades. “Surely you’ve - ahh - more to give me.”

Bard let out a laugh - privilege indeed this was, but not without a challenge, apparently. He took it, straightening, gripping Thranduil’s sides now and snapping his hips in to him with considerably more force. Thranduil dipped his back and widened his legs slightly, and the new angle let Bard brush that sweet spot inside him with every thrust.

A minute more and Thranduil was moaning in earnest, gasping with every snap of Bard’s hips, tightening deliciously around him. Bard could tell that the Elvenking was close now, and he was about to reach around to take his cock when he thought better of it. “I think you can come on my cock alone, eh?”

“I don’t doubt it, Dragonslayer,” Thranduil managed through gritted teeth, though also with pride.

And Bard began to work harder, aiming to make it happen, but when Thranduil groaned that he was almost there he suddenly slowed his pace - almost to a stop - bringing Thranduil back from the edge. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough noise out of the Elvenking, and he decided he would draw this out until Thranduil was an incoherent mess underneath him and everyone knew it.

“Bard!” Thranduil snapped as he was denied his climax. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve more to give you.”

Thranduil grinned at the bowman’s cheek and shifted his position, gripping the throne’s back instead of it’s arms. “Then let me take it.” 

Bard started to move his hips again and Thranduil let his head drop, closing his eyes this time as he savored the feeling of Bard moving inside him, the sweet burning, the way it ran through all his nerves and sent them smoldering. 

Bard brought him up quicker this time, wasting no time in establishing a fast, hard rhythm, angling specifically for that spot that made Thranduil cry out. Soon he was there again, he felt it build, he had a foot raised to step of the cliff, and then Bard dared to stop his hips all together.

“ _Ahh, Bard!_ ” Thranduil’s exclamation was in anger but Bard could tell from his tone that he was loving the frustration - he suspected there weren’t many people that ventured to deny the Elvenking anything.

Bard pushed the hair from Thranduil’s neck so that he could kiss him there, pausing for a moment to worry the flushed skin. The Elvenking was panting under him but still he let out a sigh at the touch of Bard’s lips. Bard worked patiently, letting Thranduil come down fully before he struck up his pace again.

He began punishingly, driving in to Thranduil now as hard and as fast as he could, giving everything he had as he knew it would be his final effort. Soon Bard was moaning aloud and Thranduil was all but wailing, squirming under him.

“Yes, yes, claim me, Dragonslayer, _claim me_ , make me yours.”

His blood raced at the idea - he wanted to, he wanted Thranduil to be his as he had never been anyone else’s, and at that thought Bard decided he would test his luck: he raised a hand and gave Thranduil’s ass as hard a slap as he dared, and the king actually jerked forward, letting out a cry of pleasure.

Bard thrilled at the sound and grinned to himself. With his left hand he kept a firm grip on the Elvenking’s hips as he continued to thrust, the right he let fall again, harder this time, and he was awarded a louder cry. Another and Thranduil wailed his name.

“You like that?” Bard asked roughly, running his hand over the hot skin he had marked.

“Yes, yes I like it,” Thranduil whimpered, and he did, he felt filthy and debauched, any sense of composure or dignity gone as he unravelled under the hands of the lake man.

“You want more?” Bard asked, holding up his hand, ready to let it fall when he got what _he_ wanted.

“Yes!”

“Beg me for it, Lord of the Elves,” Bard said, continuing his thrusts, drunk on this fleeting power.

“I beg of you!”

Bard held out still. “I beg of you...?”

“Dragonslayer! I beg of you, Dragonslayer, more, _please!_ ”

Bard let swing his palm and it met its target with a wicked slap, crimson blooming across Thranduil’s ass and a sob tearing from his throat.

“Come for me,” Bard ordered at last. “Come on, show me how much you love it.”

He brought his hand down one more time and with its smack Thranduil’s hips jerked forward, Bard’s cock slipping out completely as he came with a shout, clinging white-knuckled to the back of the throne as his seed splashed on to its seat through each pulse of his climax.

Bard savored every sound of Thranduil’s undoing as he stroked himself to finishing, following quickly after, his own come streaking Thranduil’s back, figuring that if he hadn’t claimed the elf after all of that then he should have picked someone else to fuck him.

After a moment Thranduil straightened, panting heavily, and he was glad when Bard picked up the trousers he had discarded by the throne and then took him in his arms, holding the Elvenking as he wiped his back clean.

They presently collapsed on the throne - it was difficult for the two of them to fit on it together and Thranduil found himself curled on Bard’s lap, though he did not mind in the slightest as the Bowman held him and soothed him and drew patterns across his back with his fingertips. They simply sat together for a moment, breath stilling, hearts slowing. 

When Thranduil shifted in his arms, however, Bard raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Gonna be a little sore on your moose tomorrow?”

“It’s an elk, Bargeman,” Thranduil retorted, lifting his chin haughtily.

“Bargeman? A minute ago I was _Dragonslayer_.”

Thranduil ran his hand down Bard’s chest. “But now you do my mount insult.”

“I believe _you_ do your mount insult - wasn’t it me you were riding a minute ago as well?”

“Indeed, and I believe I’ve given you far to much reign.” For the slightest second Bard was worried he had indeed taken things too far in spanking the king of the elves, but then Thranduil put a hand behind his neck and gave him that little smile. “That tongue of yours _must_ be silenced, Master Bard, I can’t take another minute of it.”

And Thranduil kissed him, deep and full and sharp and sweet, like that Dorwinion wine, and it filled the both of them with warmth.

“Ah...my Lord Thranduil?” The hesitant voice of an elf from outside the tent. Bard froze, but Thranduil seemed unfazed, not moving from his place on Bard’s lap.

“Yes.”

“Shall I wait, or...?” 

Bard thrilled with the knowledge that elf had just heard absolutely everything they’d done.

“No, I am through. Though you may simply speak your message, you do not need to enter.”

“Yes my lord. The wizard is here. He is requesting a meeting with Bard.”

“Well I am meeting with Bard at the moment,” Thranduil replied, smiling at the Bowman, a hand rubbing at the base of his neck.

“Yes, he says he is...quite aware.” Bard’s eyes widened and Thranduil let out a burst of musical laughter. “But that this is...of importance.”

“That is unfortunate. He may see him in the morning,” the Elvenking told his guard firmly. He took his hand from his Dragonslayer’s neck and twined Bard’s fingers in his own. “Tonight Bard’s company is mine alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> We're pretending that there are moose in Middle Earth. Are there? Maybe. I can't say.  
> Thanks very much for reading!! Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> There's a sequel as well, check it ouuut


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